


naughts

by demotu



Series: top shelf, glove side [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Dom/sub, Light BDSM, M/M, Negotiations, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Game(s), Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1242016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demotu/pseuds/demotu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” Pat starts, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “If you’re interested, I might be looking for orders tonight.”<br/>“Yeah?” Backes says, glancing at him.<br/>“After that game?” Pat throws him a grin, weak as it is. “Could do with it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	naughts

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently the _four for six_ world was just irresistible to me in the light of [sad](http://img.gawkerassets.com/img/19gen6n602m7fjpg/ku-xlarge.jpg) [Patrick](http://theagonyofdefeat.tumblr.com/post/77430313319) [Kane](http://31.media.tumblr.com/79eb2332f367399eac39ffcaab4f36c7/tumblr_n1diwrtyjL1sz7o69o2_500.jpg) [faces](http://jdornation.tumblr.com/post/77406644161/patrick-kane-skates-away-after-the-loss-in-a-mens), so here is David Backes fixing PKane with his magic captain cock. I kid, I kid (sort of), all cock-fixing here is requested and negotiated. Hurrah for self-actualization and agency!
> 
> Not that this is anything but smut. Anyhoo, for those of you who are like "Backes and Oshie what?", please [watch the first few seconds of this video](http://thecoggs.tumblr.com/post/77615313049/tj-oshie-and-david-backes-saving-puppies-viewable) where TJ demonstrates (a) how easily he takes orders and (b) his willingness to kiss David Backes. Also puppies. You will not be disappointed.
> 
> Also for more Hawks, maybe now some Blues, and occasional ficlets/excerpts from whatever I'm working on, I'm too often on tumblr, also [demotu](http://demotu.tumblr.com/).

~

 

Losing to Finland isn’t quite the same as the last game against Phoenix in oh-twelve, but it’s a familiar sensation nonetheless. Pat keeps it together enough not to get a game misconduct, this time, but at the end he doesn’t want to stand with his team. He’s pissed at everybody, himself included, and more than a little humiliated. He knows he’s showing it all over his face, too, and that’s as humiliating as the final score. His linemates can’t even meet his eyes; only JVR and Oshie can manage conciliatory punches to the shoulder in the locker room.

There’s a somber dinner in the quieting cafeteria, where the team is blessedly left alone to eat. Afterwards, he falls in with Backes on the walk back to the dorms, starting up a low conversation about the game and slowing down enough that they end up lagging behind the group. Oshie’s up somewhere with Shattenkirk, loud and full of surprisingly genuine cheer. On anybody else it would be insufferable, but Pat’s found that hating Oshie is pretty much impossible in person.

“So,” Pat starts, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “If you’re interested, I might be looking for orders tonight.”

“Yeah?” Backes says, glancing at him.

“After that game?” Pat throws him a grin, weak as it is. “Could do with it.”

“Kaner, wait,” Backes says seriously, catching him by the elbow and bringing them both to a halt, turned together on the sidewalk. Pat thinks Backes is using the nickname deliberately. This is the Captain of the Blues talking, not the top. He tilts his head back to meet Backes’ steady gaze, curious.

“I’m not-” Backes starts, breaking off with a frown and letting go of Pat’s elbow. “You worked your ass off in that game. If you wanna be punished for that, I’m not the one to ask. You shouldn’t ask anyone.”

Pat blows out a breath, thinking about what he wants to say, what he _wants_. His first instinct is to say that’s not what he wants, at _all_ , but if he were in Chicago he might’ve gone out exactly for that. It’s not, he doesn’t think, what he’s asking for from Backes, however.

“I know. I mean, I played, at least, even if I played like shit-”

“-Kaner-”

“-and I’m not looking to be told off for it. I just wanna get out of my head for a bit, stop feeling the loss so much.” He shrugs, shifting uneasily on his feet. “If you’re not interested, that’s cool.”

“It’s not that I’m not interested,” Backes says slowly, giving Pat a look that he could only describe as _evaluative_. “I just don’t know you very well and don’t want to fuck you up. It was a rough game. For all of us.”

“You won’t,” Pat says lightly. “I promise you, I know how to say stop when I hit my limits. And they’re pretty deep.”

“You sure?” Backes says.

“Yeah. Yes,” Pat says, nodding once and squaring his stance a little. “Please.”

That seems to do it, but Backes just nods and starts walking again, Pat stepping in beside him. When they get near the dorms, Backes tells him to go clean up and pack and that he’ll text him in half an hour or so.

“TJ will be there,” he adds, just before they split up in the hallway.

“Duh,” says Pat, and goes to sort out his shit.

 

~

 

Cally’s in the room when Pat comes in, sorting through a giant pile of Team USA gear on his bed. They share a nod but no words, and Pat goes right for the bathroom. It’s hard to look in the mirror, honestly - he’s not _ashamed_ , not with his own play, but the frustration and humiliation sit low in his belly, threatening to rise up. Cally’s just outside, though, on the other side of the hollow door, and Pat’s already embarrassed himself enough with the tears he can never fucking control, so he turns on the shower and strips and keeps his shoulder stiff enough not to shake apart.

When he comes out, towel looped around his hips and hair scrubbed into messy dampness, Cally’s moved on from his vague attempts at packing and is sitting in the pile of clothes, texting.

“Gonna meet a few of the guys downstairs,” he says. “Coming?”

“Nah,” says Pat, pulling on a pair of clean track pants. “Have fun, though.”

Cally snorts. “Sure. Don’t beat yourself up too much, Kaner.”

Pat shrugs and silently accepts the clap on his shoulder as Cally heads for the door.

His own phone is lit up - JVR with an invite, probably to the thing Cally’s going to, Hawks, family, buddies with consolation texts - but there’s one from Backes near the top that he opens.

_Word? Any unusual limits? used to hockey players._

_Madison_ , Pat texts back, and then _Nothing you’re likely to try._

_K. You wanna let it out or put it aside?_

Pat frowns at his phone, and asks, _You mean the loss?_

_Yeah._

Pat hesitates, and then types, _You’re in charge_. He hits send before he can take it back and say _make me forget_ because he’s sick of feeling overwhelmed by this shit and wants nothing more that to let it all go. But Backes - David looked like he knew what he was doing, with TJ, and the point of this, for Pat, is to not have to figure out how it’s okay to feel.

_Alright. Come over in 20._

_See you then._

 

~

 

It’s only TJ in the room when Pat steps inside, curled up at the head of the far bed with his phone. He looks up and smiles, a small smile for TJ but genuine, shifting over a little to make room for Pat.

“Where’s David?” Pat asks, coming around and standing by the bed, crossing his arms uneasily.

“He’ll be here soon,” TJ says, putting his phone on the bedside table. He slides a hand around one of Pat’s forearms and tugs until Pat unfolds them and sits down. TJ rolls his eyes at Pat’s stiffness, perched on the side of the bed, and starts prodding and pulling until they’re face to face on the pillows, legs twisted together.

“Consolation cuddles?” Pat asks, wry.

“For sure,” TJ says, taking him seriously and draping an arm around Pat’s waist. “Blues tradition, man. I’m initiating you.”

“Fuck the Blues,” Pat mumbles into TJ’s shoulder. TJ laughs and sticks his nose in Pat’s neck and holds on tight. It’s kind of nice, really. TJ’s pretty much the same size as Pat, but he knows how to give a good hug, enveloping and determined.

Pat hears the door shut and pulls his face away from TJ’s chest to see David kicking off his shoes. He twists in TJ's arms, the back of his head resting on the arm TJ has tucked under him, legs straightened out, and watches as David comes up and crouches at the foot of the bed.

“Kids,” David says, and Pat winces a little.

“That's probably not gonna work for me,” he says, glancing at TJ apologetically. “Sorry.” TJ just shrugs his free shoulder and runs his hand down Pat's side, fingers twisting into his shirt.

“What's better?” David asks, wrapping a hand around Pat's ankle, under the hem of his pants. “Boy? Something else? Just Patrick?”

Boy would work, he supposes, but before Pat can say so, TJ laughs in his ear and says, “Jonny calls him Peekaboo. Peeks.”

It’s - fuck, Pat can tell David sees all the ways Pat reacts to the nickname, the shaky exhale he can’t help, the twist of his foot in David’s grip, the rush of blood to his face. “It’s not,” he tries, and has to cough to clear his throat before adding, “I’ve never, with Jonny–”

“Peeks,” David interrupts, and Pat shudders, turning his face into TJ’s shoulder. “Hey,” David says, shaking his ankle. “Look at me.”

“Sorry,” Pat says, turning back. “Nobody – I don’t usually. With teammates.” Fuck, he can’t even find his words. He shuts his eyes again and swallows, breathing through his nose and trying to push against the tightness in his gut. He’s still all here; he wasn’t expecting to be pushed off-kilter so fast.

“Never been called that in a scene before, you mean?” David asks, rubbing a thumb along the jut of Pat’s ankle bone, and then lifting away. Pat opens his eyes and watches as David starts to loosen the laces of his high tops, tonguing wordlessly at his lower lip. “Patrick.”

“Uh,” Pat says, pushing up on an elbow, trying to clear his head a little. “Yeah, I mean, no, nobody’s used it here. I didn’t think…” he trails off, biting his lip as David drags off one shoe and then the other.

David smiles, warm, and strips Pat’s feet of his socks before standing up. “Help me with his pants, TJ. So you’ve never talked through a game like this.”

“Ugh, no,” Pat says, shifting up his hips up to help TJ drag the waistband of his pants down. He doesn’t fucking want to now, either, but he said this was David’s show, and he’s not gonna take it back. David strips him of his pants from his ankles, leaving him bare up to his grey boxer-briefs. “You guys do that?”

“It can help,” David says. TJ hums in Pat’s ear, rubbing his knuckles into Pat’s hip and then drawing his fingers up under the hem of his shirt. Pat catches David’s nod, and braces himself with his abs, arms up, so that TJ can pull it over his head.

“I dunno,” Pat says skeptically, falling back into the pillows.

“You don’t have to, Peeks,” David says calmly, settling over Pat’s thighs, knees on either side of his hips. Pat shivers a little – at the weight, fuck, he’s _not_ letting that name get to him – and TJ rubs a hand down his belly, still holding himself up on one arm, hand tucked between Pat’s shoulder blades against the bed.

“It’s not the worst,” TJ says. “I mean, it kind of is, but then it’s not.”

Pat shuts his eyes and tries to think of the game, replay the shifts, the missed shots, the penalties taken, and just _can’t_.

It must show on his face, because TJ says “hey, hey” gently until Pat looks up at him. “You looked pretty destroyed at the game, man. I mean, I’ve watched other games where the Hawks have lost, big, but you’ve never….”

“Actually cried on the bench?” Pat manages. It comes out bitter, but at least he’s not crying again. “Usually save it for the fucking locker room.” He doesn’t actually cry that often after a game; ones that feel this bad, where he feels this useless and impotent, have become satisfyingly rare with the Hawks. But it’s easy to forget every time he’s held himself together, wallowing in the embarrassment of this afternoon.

“I don’t know what was wrong with me,” he adds quietly.

David’s watching him with a considering expression, barely resting on Pat. TJ’s pressed against him, but he’s unusually still, maybe held in check by the hand David has pressed against TJ’s thigh. Pat wants them to touch – Pat’s not hard, not even close, but trying to get there would be a distraction from all of this.

“C’mon,” he tries, reaching out to grip at David’s leg. David catches his hand and twists it over, holding it tight against his thigh.

“Walk me through the penalty shots.”

“What the fuck,” Pat says, pulling at his hand. David just holds tighter, and Pat swallows. “You saw the fucking replays, man.”

“I don’t care about the stickhandling,” David answers. “Tell me what was going on in your head.”

“I…,” Pat trails off, uncertain. “I don’t–”

“Patrick,” David says, voice low and, not angry, Pat can’t see David sounding outright angry, but warning, at least. “You’re here to do what I say. You want that, you follow through. You don’t want that, tap out.”

“I don’t want a therapy session,” Pat bitches, reluctant but unwilling to call it. “You gonna just sit there and look disapproving– _shit_.”

Pat curls up, tries to twist away from under David, who’s let go of his hand and dug all five nails into the thin skin over the jut of Pat’s hipbone, sharp and precise. David’s sunk down onto his thighs, now, and TJ’s slid his hand up to press Pat back down into the bed, so there’s nowhere to go. Pat sucks in a breath and lets it out and thinks _let go_ and swallows against the sharpness until it’s just. There.

“The penalty shots, Peeks.”

Pat’s eyelids flicker, but the pressure of David’s fingernails doesn’t.

“They would have made a difference,” Pat says, the first thing in his head. The ice was shitty for the first one, he shouldn’t have gone for the backhand shelf so close on it, and the second – he’s made that shot fifty times in a row in practice, but games aren’t practice. The details though – they don’t matter now, what matters is that he missed when his team needed a point on the board. “I should – I’m supposed to make that difference.”

“We were down five, not two.”

“Eventually – momentum’s a thing. We could have gotten on the _board._ ”

David lifts his nails and Pat hisses, the pain seeping back in as the pressure leaves. “You could have gotten a goal out of the tournament, too.”

Pat opens his eyes. “As if that fucking mattered.”

“No?” David asks, rubbing his thumb into the crescent marks he’s left on Pat’s skin. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure to produce. I’m sure it would have felt good.”

“Only because…” Pat trails off, licking his lips. “I don’t know. It was humiliating, a five-nothing blowout? To Finland? I kept _trying_ , even when there was no fucking way we were - but nobody, _fuck_.” He cuts himself off as his throat tightens, squeezing his eyes shut against the prickle of threatening tears.

“Yeah,” David says, softly. Pat’s sure he’s going to push more, braces himself for it. Instead, he has to let out his held breath in a sharp rush when David cups his soft dick, fingers working down between Pat’s legs to push against his balls. David lets the pressure grow until it’s verging towards pain, Pat gasping with it, and then releases. He drags Pat’s briefs down, hooking them under his balls and rubbing a palm against Pat’s stiffening cock, dry, uncomfortable friction that’s enough to make Pat groan. Pat pulls his own hands up from his sides, crossing his wrists over TJ’s hand on his chest and saying, “Fuck, I can’t.”

“I got you,” TJ says, wrapping his hand around Pat’s wrists. He shifts down a little, letting his hand under Pat’s back slide further until he’s gripping Pat’s shoulder, holding Pat tight against his chest.

David works him over hard, an unrelenting, unpredictable push-pull, nails sliding sharply along his dick, thumbs pulling at the slit, fingers pinching at his sac. Pat shouts at a hard flick to his balls, pressed up against the elastic of his briefs, and there’s a momentary pause. Pat clenches his fists to his chest, not testing TJ’s grip, and holds his breath until David picks it back up again, holding his dick up straight and rubbing the pads of his fingers into the swollen head.

“Damn, that’s hot,” TJ says, breath hot in Pat’s ear. “You’ve got a pretty dick, Peekaboo.”

“Fuck you,” Pat says, weak with sensation, but still with it enough to knock his temple into TJ’s nose and make him pull back with a laugh.

“If you want,” TJ says with a grin.

“If _I_ want,” David corrects, twisting his hand once and then letting go entirely.

“Yeah Davey,” TJ says, leaning his head on Pat’s shoulder. “Always.”

“Good boy,” David says, sliding a finger along the waistband of TJ’s sweats. “You can touch yourself while you watch. Don’t come.”

“Sweet,” TJ says, wiggling his sweats over his hips. He presses his dick into Pat’s hip before pulling back enough to wrap his fingers around himself and rub.

“Jesus,” Pat says, catching his breath. David shifts over and tugs his briefs off entirely, tossing them on the floor. He pushes Pat’s legs apart enough to kneel in between them, settling back onto the bed. “That all you got?” he taunts, kicking at one of David’s calves with the heel of his foot.

David huffs a laugh. “I said I wasn’t going to punish you for the game.”

“Good, cause it’d be a shit job if you were,” Pat says, and then shuts his mouth, regretting it. He didn’t ask David for this to be difficult, he really didn’t.

David just quirks an eyebrow, reaches over and hauls Pat’s left leg across his lap, twisting Pat at the waist, and lays a sharp slap on Pat’s ass.

“Fuck!” Pat yells, startled, and curls in as David spanks him again, broad hand connecting perfectly. TJ lets go of his dick to wrap his arms tight around Pat, pinning his arms against his chest and pressing his teeth to Pat’s shoulder. “I thought– _shit_ – you weren’t going to–goddamnit,” Pat groans, tucking his chin down and shaking against the blows.

“Didn’t say anything about not punishing you for mouthing off,” David says, gripping Pat’s hot skin tightly and making him whimper. TJ slides a hand up to his mouth, and Pat opens, grateful to suck two of his fingers in and feel the stroke of TJ’s thumb against his jaw as David picks back up again. He pushes against Pat’s hip to expose him further and works steady, hard slaps across his ass and down his thighs. It hurts like a motherfucker, the pause between each spank hardly enough to breath in and let it dissipate. His cries are muffled, wet around TJ’s fingers, and he sinks into it, stops pushing against David holding his legs down and TJ around his arms and, fucking _, fuck,_ takes it.

He’s crying properly when David finally, finally stops, gasping sobs that have him shaking. David runs a hand over his hip and then down his left leg before he hauls Pat back over his lap. TJ uses the fingers in his mouth to draw Pat into his shoulder and then pulls them out, rubbing a thumb along the tear tracks on Pat’s cheeks.

“We got you, Peekaboo, we got you,” TJ murmurs, soothing.

Pat turns his face to press against the soft cotton of TJ’s shift, trying to wipe away the wetness. TJ pushes back with his fingers so that David can lean up and press his forehead to Pat’s, eyes bright and blue and so close that Pat can’t keep his own open.

“The last penalty,” David starts. Pat flinches, a low, unhappy sound coming up from his throat. “Why did you take it?”

“S’angry,” Pat slurs, tongue heavy. “Hate losing.”

“You put us down again, it could have been six-nothing. Would that have been better?”

Pat whimpers, tries to shift away, but TJ’s got him pulled in tight and Pat’s got nothing left, muscles drained from more than just the game.

“I don’t think,” David says slowly, words soft, breath warm across Pat’s lips, “that you were so upset because we lost. I think you hated it because you felt like you were losing alone.”

Pat opens his eyes.

“You weren’t the only one trying to win, Patrick,” David says, pulling back enough to keep Pat’s eyes from crossing as he watches, empty and blank. “Fuck knows most of us threw in the towel, but you weren’t even the only guy on your line trying to win.”

“Know that,” Pat manages.

“I hope so.”

David leans across Pat for a moment, and Pat lets his eyes fall shut. The aches in his legs, his hip, his ass are present but distant; nothing compared to the gentle rub of TJ’s fingers across his collarbone or the grip of David’s hands on his thighs as he spreads them open across his own. The press of David’s fingers inside makes the last of the tension in Pat’s gut drop away, until he feels only TJ and David and nothing of himself.

TJ lets his hand drift while David works Pat open, sliding his fingers along Pat’s neck and jaw, drawing broad strokes down his side, rubbing a thumb along the crease of his groin. When he presses the back of his knuckles to Pat’s dick, fat and half-hard on his belly, Pat turns his face and searches wordlessly for a kiss, sighing when TJ licks into his mouth. They kiss for an age, TJ keeping the pace slow, sucking Pat’s lower lip in and worrying it against his teeth gently until Pat’s keening, low and interrupted only by the hitches of his breath when David curls his fingers in deep and right.

Finally, _finally_ , David pulls his fingers out and pushes on the backs of Pat’s knees. TJ reaches down to grasp on to one so David can press the head of his cock to Pat’s hole and push. It would hurt, Pat knows, despite the careful prep, if he weren’t stripped down to nothing already. As it is, it’s just unending pressure and fullness that makes his throat close up.

“Yeah, look at you,” TJ says, rubbing his dick into Pat’s hip, fingers twitching into the muscle of Pat’s thigh. “Davey’s cock feels so good, doesn’t it?”

“Oh,” Pat says, and again as David’s hips come up flush to his spanked-hot ass, the roughness of the hair on David’s thighs against tender skin lighting Pat up as much as his dick. “Oh, _please_.”

“Please what?” David asks, pulling back an inch and pushing in, hard enough to make’s Pat whole body shake. TJ’s arm around his shoulders keeps him from riding up the bed.

“I don’t-” Pat tries, breaking off with a groan when David thrusts again.

“I do,” David says, and Pat brings his hand up to his mouth to bite into the meat of his palm. “Kid,” David adds. TJ lets go and pulls Pat’s hand away, pressing his thumb between Pat’s lips instead.

David rubs his thumbs into the hollows of Pat’s knees as he fucks him, and it’s that gentle touch that has Pat drifting. David’s cock is fat and long and pressing up against everything. When he pulls all the way out, Pat bites on TJ’s thumb and arches and tries to say “no, no, more,” but it’s hard to make anything other than wordless sounds. David presses back in, just enough to pop the head in and stretch Pat’s rim wide without filling him up the way Pat wants, the way he _needs._ Pat shivers and groans.

“Look at me, Peeks,” David says. Pat does, curling his tongue around TJ’s thumb to keep himself there for David. “We’re not the Hawks, we’re not your boys, but still.” He slides in, wet and slow and Pat shakes with the effort not to throw his head back and shut his eyes. David wants him to look.

“You’re never alone on the ice. Not in this game. You hear me? You lost with us.”

Pat nods, cracked open and gasping, but the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes don’t burn.

“Good, Peeks,” David says. “You’re so good. I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just shoves Pat’s legs out, slides his hands in to push on the mattress beside Pat and fucks Pat _hard_. Pat takes it, the thick stretch, pressing deep, until David shifts a little and the change sends Pat reeling. Pat curls his hands beside his head and throws his head back, TJ’s thumb slipping from his slack mouth to trail down his throat.

“God, god,” he chants, twisting against the sheets. “David, Davey, can I, please.”

“No,” David says, pulling out with a grunt. Pat looks down to see David strip off the condom, pump his own cock twice, and come all over Pat’s dick and balls.

“Oh shit,” Pat gasps, dick twitching visibly on his belly.

David slides off the bed and pushes Pat over on his side towards TJ, who unwraps his arms from Pat and sits up. Pat whimpers at the sudden chill, but David holds him still with a warm hand against his arm while TJ flips around and, _oh,_ licks at the mess on Pat’s belly.

“Fu-uck,” Pat moans, curling in as TJ runs his fingers through the slick mess on his balls and wraps them around the base of Pat’s dick. David runs a hand through Pat’s curls and reaches over Pat’s shoulder to grab at TJ’s dick.

“Suck, Peeks,” David says, pressing on the back of Pat’s skull. “You too, kid.”

Pat almost doesn’t want to, wants to watch as TJ licks David’s come off his dick some more, but David’s hand is insistent and TJ’s been so good. Pat leans in and lets David feed TJ’s dick through his lips, his eyes falling shut at the smooth press of the head on his tongue. David doesn’t push far enough to make Pat choke, just works his hand in a comfortable rhythm on the shaft while Pat sucks. Pat’s too boneless to even twitch as TJ licks him clean, sucking kisses down the slide of his dick, but the bloom of TJ’s come on his tongue makes him groan.

“Damn, Peekaboo,” TJ says, forehead pressed into Pat’s hip. “Love your mouth.”

“Want him to return the favour?” David asks, tugging gently at Pat’s curls until he pulls off TJ’s dick and drops his head to TJ’s thigh. “Want me to put my fingers back in you, too?”

“Please,” Pat sighs, caught in that strange space here he’s so relaxed he can hardly move, and so wired with the need to come that just the slide of David’s fingers against his sensitive hole makes him moan.

He comes the same way; a low, long, pulsing orgasm that rolls up over him, as overwhelming as it is inevitable. TJ swallows him deep as David presses two fingers against his prostate, milking him until he’s shaking between them, mouthing the soft skin of TJ’s inner thigh.

After, when Pat’s spent and shivering, David makes TJ get up for water and a washcloth and sits on the bed beside Pat, stroking his hair. When TJ comes back, he watches them both drink and walks TJ through cleaning Pat up. TJ’s oddly shy about it, but he follows David’s instructions to the letter, so Pat just shuts his eyes and drifts for a while.

When he’s done, TJ crawls back in the bed beside Pat, pulling up the sheet and blanket from the heap at the bottom of the bed. David sits with them until Pat’s not shivering anymore, and then tugs on Pat’s curls, once, and stands up. TJ’s still kind of twitchy, running his hands along Pat’s bruised hip and sore ass, like he’s checking him over. He finally settles at a cough from David, pushing Pat onto his back to sprawl across him and tuck his chin into Pat’s shoulder.

From anybody else it’d be possessive; from TJ, it’s just like having a very large lapdog who insists on smothering you, Pat thinks lazily, shifting to tuck himself in more comfortably.

“You want in on this, man?” Pat says to David, who’s started sorting through an epic pile of dirty laundry on the other bed. “We could make room.”

David raises an eyebrow. “Uh, no thanks. Those beds don’t really fit three side-by-side.”

“Well, TJ’s mostly on top of me,” Pat points out.

“Nah, I like - this,” David says with a grin, waving his hand in their general direction. “Pile of happy puppies.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Pat says with a laugh. He wraps an arm around TJ’s back, bringing his hand up to scratch at the base of his neck until TJ hums at him.

“You do this the other way, right?” TJ asks sleepily, pushing into Pat’s hand.

“Yup,” says Pat.

“More often?”

“Not really,” Pat says, stroking his fingers through TJ’s hair. “Depends on who I’ve got around, more than anything.”

“Huh,” says TJ, curious. “It just - I dunno. Seemed hard for you, today.”

Pat sighs, shifting under TJ. “Well, yeah. It was a hard day, I guess? For hockey, and I don’t usually mix the two. Not like this.”

“Davey got you there, though,” TJ says, sounding proud, and Pat laughs and wiggles a little, relaxing again.

“He did,” Pat agrees, catching David’s eye and smiling. “It just took some adjusting.”

“New team, new plays,” TJ says agreeably, hooking a heel around Pat’s ankle and tugging Pat more firmly under him.

“Gold star,” Pat says. “If not quite a gold medal.”

 

~

 

 


End file.
